


Keep Your Shield Up

by eternalshiva



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition: Cullen [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalshiva/pseuds/eternalshiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smoke seems to seep through everything, Cullen thought, as he pushes through the fields outside the small village. Fire ravaged the dead grass surrounding the small houses and despite the wind’s strong gust, he can smell the burning flesh of the dead lingering in the air. His lips curl back into a sneer, the bile sits at the edge of his throat; he was used to death but he was not used to seeing innocents caught in the crossfire. (art by falsesecuritysketches)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Shield Up

_ _

[ _Art by Falsesecuritysketches_ ](http://falsesecuritysketches.tumblr.com/post/111415936809)

 

 _Smoke seems to seep through everything_ , Cullen thought, as he pushes through the fields outside the small village. Fire ravaged the dead grass surrounding the small houses and despite the wind’s strong gust, he can smell the burning flesh of the dead lingering in the air. His lips curl back into a sneer, the bile sits at the edge of his throat; he was used to death but he was not used to seeing innocents caught in the crossfire.

“We’ll check the parameters of the village, see if there any survivors,” he calls out to the small troop with him and they spread out with the orders, passing them on to the others too far to hear him.

Then again, Cullen sighed, he couldn’t forget about Kirkwall. Innocent and the guilty alike had fallen under the strike of his blade and some had suffered the final blow of the Champion’s staff – blood magic or not. It hadn’t even been a month since he had left the Order behind and tried to shed his history with the doomed city but it was clear that the Mage-Templar war had gripped Thedas like an unwanted second skin and the reality of it was everywhere.

He pressed his lips together. Something… something was _amiss_.

He stood still for a moment; he can hear the sounds of his newly recruited men shuffling quietly through the long forgotten strands of the rotted wheat – the farmers, he was sure, had deserted the area, or worst, were all dead. There was a heavy feeling to the air, one he didn’t like; he had a bad feeling in his gut and he raised his sword to gain the attention of the men behind him.

With the glint of his sword, they all stopped. Cullen kept his weapon raised, eyes on the horizon with a frown marring his brow. The smoke was thick, so was the smell – but it was far too quiet, far too… he couldn’t quite put his finger on…

The swift sound of arrows flying towards them sets him into motion immediately – “Shields!” He shouts, raising his own and ducks under it, rolling himself into a ball, making sure nothing vital is hanging out the edges. The men are slow to react, the arrows pick them off one by one and Cullen feels the pang of failure, he hadn’t had the time to teach them properly – they were still fresh with little to no knowledge in the art of war.

He hears the enemy before he sees them- a rough “Kill them!” metallic scream, of what _seems_ to be a voice, explodes out of the smoke with strange looking bodies _glowing_ red. Cullen’s eyes grow wide – he’d seen them before, just at the end of his stay in Kirkwall.

 _Red Templars_.

The Commander shouts for his soldiers to regroup, it’s chaos – they’re swarmed from every angle. The recruits are cut down, some are still fighting with the arrows deep in their bodies, and some aren’t even lifting their blades but are frozen in place with fear.

They fall, and Cullen slips on the blood of those who could not fight– his footing is loose and unsteady on the uneven land. Swords and axes cross paths, he can feel the sweat building on his brow and he manages to ignore the sting of it when it slips in his eyes. He _can’t_ get distracted now.

He pushes through the tainted warriors, he pushes through; his shield knocks his opponent onto its arse, using the blood slicked earth to his advantage. He wants to grin at the small victories; he wants to cheer when he sees his recruits mimicking him and turn the tides of battle in the span of a few minutes.

He’s first in line, shouting to taunt the enemy away from those who can barely hold up the shields, can barely keep them angled away from their faces. He shouts at the big Templar rushing through the line.

He’s got its attention and for a moment, he freezes – its swinging it’s weapon towards him and Cullen braces himself for impact. He plants his feet – his eyes never leaving the Behemoth and at the last second, he realises that’s not a weapon, it’s the Templar’s arm.

The strike is harder than he anticipated, the bones in his arms shake under the pressure – the Templar’s breath is rancid, Cullen’s cry of war is dwarfed by the grunts of the monster. It’s all he can see in front of him, the Order’s symbol embedded in the skin of his opponent, large red crystals of lyrium are pushed through the skin. It’s red, raw and painful looking. Cullen can almost taste the taint in the air.

He hears the metal of his shield screech as the Behemoth slides his spear-arm across it, forcing Cullen to back off for a split second and, using all the force he can muster, the commander slams back into it.

“You _will_ fall back!” he screams, loud enough for his recruits to hear, loud enough to fuse some courage in the men who are willing to give their lives to the cause. He will not allow it to pass.

He slides his sword around the shield, grunting with effort as his feet slide backwards against the dirt, the monster screeches and grunt as he pulls on his red lyrium to give him more power, more strength and Cullen is losing his ground, he’s feeling the first pang of panic but he can’t let the emotion win so he pushes it down, and pulls up his rage.

He slashes, catching the exposed throat of the Red Templar, it backs away suddenly, and Cullen loses his balance, stumbling forward from the force of his own weight. His opponent slams down the spear-arm, missing Cullen by an inch or two – forcing dirt and rotted wheat to fly up into the air. The force of the blow scatters it to the winds and suddenly it’s everywhere. In his mouth, in his eyes – in his nose.

Cullen strikes again, slamming his blade through the chest of the Behemoth, missing the heart, only to be rewarded with another swing from the beast and this time it slashed upwards and catches the bottom of Cullen’s shield, knocking it back away from him and exposing the commander to a careless strike. He feels the breath knocked from him as a shoulder slams into his chest. The Behemoth roars as Cullen wheezes, blinded by the dirt it drug up with its blow. He coughs and blinks his eyes wildly, trying to keep his vision clear but he’s not fast enough. The Behemoth strikes down again and Cullen barely has time to pull up his shield to protect himself; it catches the top of it, sliding painfully across his face.

There’s something _wrong_ , Cullen can feel the breeze on his teeth, and he can’t pull back his lips right – everything feels loose around his mouth and it’s flooding with the copper taste of blood but he doesn’t think about it. He slams his blade forward again, this time, he’s no longer alone against the Behemoth, several recruits back him up and they surround the large enemy and attack, all at once.

It fights tooth and nail – striking down the careless. Cullen will give credit where credit is due, even for an enemy. Despite the losses, they are victorious in striking the beast down but in its last throes of death, it runs towards Cullen at full speed, ramming into his shield and knocking him off his feet. He feels the Behemoth’s weight on him as it dies and it sinks both of them to the ground. Cullen hears the crunch of his armour under him, there is pain everywhere and suddenly, there is nothing but darkness.

He stirs, aching – lighter than before.

The battlefield is quiet and there is but gentle murmurs around him. It’s dark – he can see the stars as h slowly opens his eyes but there is a light that blinds him momentarily – the green glow of magic and he stiffens.

The cool tang of it touches his skin, carefully – like a lover’s caress but he does not fight – he relaxes under the healer’s touch and tries to ignore the sour tang of lyrium that brushes his senses.

“Commander, you’re finally with us?” A woman’s voice he scarcely recognises, Orlesian and it takes him a moment to place who it is.

“Yes, Mother Giselle, I am… awake.” He whispers, he can feel her hand on his and he looks up towards the night sky – the moon is barely visible – the smoke is still thick, he can see the fire burning in the distance. Was that the village…?

“Your injury was quite bad, broken ribs and your lip and cheek were cut all the way down to the bone,” she comments gravely, patting his hand before stepping away.

Down to the bone? He was surprised.

“You’ve lost most of your troops,” the Healer says, startling him out of his thoughts.

“I am… aware,” he winces – his lip hurt, the muscles were newly knit and he was threatening to undo the hard work of the mage if he dared speak any longer.

“But, you did win the fight.” He can hear the smile in the Healer’s voice but Cullen didn’t believe that for a second. He closed his eyes and he tried to remember every detail of the battle to make sure it never happened again.


End file.
